


New Adventures in Xenomusicology

by circ_bamboo



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fill, dear god i forgot to import this, uh. Musicology?, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-16
Updated: 2010-05-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22044778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circ_bamboo/pseuds/circ_bamboo
Summary: Prompt (shortened for space):SO. Vulcan's new leadership sends out a call for assistance in teaching those of its children who are inclined to be artists, poets, writers of fiction, and so on. The story I'm asking for is the story of someone who responds and strikes up a friendship with Sarek, which, to both of their surprise, turns into a relationship. Sarek had thought his attraction to Amanda was a one-time thing, and didn't quite realize the qualities of an illogical but intelligent artist would appeal in the same way.
Relationships: Sarek/C.J. Wayata (OFC)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	New Adventures in Xenomusicology

**Author's Note:**

  * For [florahart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/gifts).



> I don't own. Well, C.J., I guess. Links on names of musical pieces go to YouTube versions.

“Good morning, Dr. Wayata. Thank you for coming to San Francisco for this interview.”

C.J. dipped her head in a nod and tried not to clutch her padd. “Thank you for inviting me.” She’d done committee interviews before—the interview to get tenure at Yale was well-known to be one of the nastiest on Terra—but never with a Starfleet admiral, a Federation councilor, and three stone-faced Vulcans.

The admiral appeared to be in charge of the interview. He’d said his name before but she’d promptly forgotten it. “This interview is for a one-year position on New Vulcan as a cultural ambassador and preservationist. If you are chosen to fill the position, you will serve two roles: first, to work with the remaining members of the species and the computer databases to preserve as much of the Vulcan culture in your particular field as possible, and second, to instruct young Vulcans in your particular field. If, after the single year is up, Vulcan is still in need of your services and the Elders determine that you are a good fit for the society, you will be offered a five-year fellowship at the Vulcan Science Academy. ”

C.J. nodded again. That much had been in the posting.

The admiral—what _was_ his name? Wasn’t he the one involved with the Battle for Earth?—spoke a third time. “Please, tell us about yourself.”

She hated that question more than anything except “What is your greatest weakness?” but answered anyway. “My name is Clara Jane Wayata; I hold a Ph.D. in xenomusicology from Yale University. My undergraduate degree is from Oxford University. I spent a total of three years during my education on Vulcan, at the Vulcan Science Academy, and I have spent five years there since. I am currently employed as a tenured professor and the head of the xenomusicology department at Yale. My specialties are Klingon opera, Dalcroze eurhythmics, and Vulcan music. I am proficient on four Western Terran instruments as well as seven Vulcan instruments, and I am also fluent in written and spoken Ancient Vulcan, Traditional Golic Vulcan, Modern Golic Vulcan, and Lowlands Golic Vulcan.”

“What are your reasons for applying for this position?” the councilor, a woman whose name C.J. had also forgotten—Bhutto?—asked.

She took a sip of water. The councilor was perhaps five years younger, but several inches taller and darker-skinned and -haired than C.J. herself. “All egotism aside, I am one of approximately twenty non-Vulcan Vulcan music scholars in the known galaxy. Eighteen of the others are or were students of mine, and the nineteenth, one of my colleagues, has declined to apply for this position. In addition to my high level of expertise, I have a secondary specialty, as I mentioned, in Dalcroze eurhythmics, which is a pedagogical method primarily used to teach children.” She held up a hand. “I understand that Vulcan children are unlike human children, but I have, at least, had experience teaching in a non-university situation. Last, but not least, I am on sabbatical for the next school year.”

Councilor Bhutto nodded. “Admirable. How old are you, Dr. Wayzata?”

 _Well, that came out of left field_. “I turned forty in February.” And not a thread of gray in her hair, either.

“Do you have any physical limitations that might impair your ability to function on a desert planet?”

 _Oh._ Right. And they were still building the colony, to boot. “Not to my knowledge.”

“If you are offered the position, we will request that you undergo a battery of tests to confirm.”

“Of course.”

The admiral—Pike! That was it. Admiral Pike took over, and questioned her about her ex-husband, her friends, her previous residences. She’d already passed a security check, but understood that it was another test. After that, the Vulcans started.

One of them was Sarek, the Ambassador to Terra; another was T’Pau, the head of the House of Surak; the third was an acoustic scientist who knew some about music. All three were worse than any Oxford don with a bent for the Socratic method than she’d ever met. C.J. found herself explaining her entire thesis, her dissertation, every article she’d ever written for publication, every textbook she’d ever co-authored (well, all three of them), every class she’d ever taught, and every presentation she’d done at a conference. No exaggeration; the Vulcans had a copy of her c.v., and went through, item by item.

By the time she was done, C.J.’s brain felt like mush. She’d pulled theories and citations out of the back of her brain like magic, and thanked genetics and training that she’d apparently stored information back there without trying. She shook Admiral Pike and Councilor Bhutto’s hands, _ta’al_ -ed at the Vulcans, and left, preparing to wait three weeks for an answer.

* * *

Twenty-four _hours_ later, she found a text comm offering her the position.

_Dear Dr. Wayata:_

_This letter is to inform you that the Vulcan Elders have offered you the position of cultural ambassador in musicology on Vulcan II, for the period of one (1) year from 2260.182 to 2261.182. If your performance and integration within Vulcan society is deemed satisfactory, you will be offered a five-year fellowship with the Vulcan Science Academy._

_Attached please find an itinerary explaining your transportation to Vulcan II, as well as suggested travel tips._

_Please reply with your acceptance or rejection at your earliest convenience._

_Sincerely,_  
(signature)  
S’chn T’gai Sarek, Ambassador to Terra 

C.J. sent back a politely worded acceptance before she looked at the attachments. She would be leaving ten days before her position started, on a ship called the _Yorktown_ , escorted by Admiral Christopher Pike. The _Yorktown_ would rendezvous with the _Enterprise_ —oh, she’d heard of that one—four days later, and the fleet’s flagship would transport her to New Vulcan, escorted by Captain James T. Kirk and Commander Spock.

Now, she just had to wait four months.

* * *

_2260.186_

_Dear Laura,_

_Apparently since I’m now considered a diplomat of some sort, I get to send letters through the diplomatic channels that are reasonably secure. Use this code when you write back and don’t worry too much about content._

_The trip over was pretty interesting—much more interesting than the passenger ships I’d been on for previous trips. A little more Spartan, perhaps, but I was staying in the ‘honored guest’ quarters, so I had a water shower and a double-width bed. The captain of the_ Yorktown _is Ilyrian; compared to the Vulcans I’ll be spending the next year with, she was downright warm. And then I caught her sneaking out of the admiral’s quarters at a thoroughly scandalous hour. (Can’t say as I blame her. He’s gorgeous.) Apparently they’ve been together for a long time._

_Anyway, enough gossip. I’ll be staying with Ambassador Sarek in his family’s compound, which consists of him, T’Pau (who scares me), and a handful of orphaned children. Admiral Pike told me that the Vulcans were fighting over who got to host me, because I was deemed the most ‘logical’ of the twenty-five of us. We’ll see what they think when all of my damn instruments get there. Also, you know, when I open my mouth and start talking._

_Anyway, take care, and say hi to Dave and all the nieces and nephews. Love ya, sis, and I’ll see you in a year._

_C.J._

* * *

“We have prepared a preliminary schedule for you,” Alarek, her contact at the Vulcan Science Academy, said, at her orientation meeting the day she arrived. “You will, of course, have the opportunity to evaluate the students who will be studying privately with you.” He handed her a padd. “We understand that you prefer to teach in a Terran style, and have scheduled the classes thusly.”

C.J. flicked through the schedule—two hours of Vulcan music theory and history a day, one hour of Terran music history and theory a day, and alternating classes in Andorian and Klingon music. After that, she taught half-hour lessons for two hours, mostly beginners, on various Vulcan instruments. _Solid_ , she thought. _Much better than essentially programming a computer for a pod._ She liked interacting with students, even if they wouldn’t react quite like humans. “This looks acceptable. I will be able to evaluate more fully after I’ve ascertained their aptitude.”

“Excellent. You will have a classroom and a studio in the Academy building, and I believe that your host family has provided you with a studio in their living area, as well.”

“They have.” She had brought a baby grand piano with her that took up the bulk of the room, plus her flute, guitar, cello, Andorian lyre, two different Vulcan lyres, a flute-like instrument, and a half-dozen percussion instruments.

“Is there anything you need in order to teach?” Alarek asked.

“No, I believe I’m prepared,” she said.

“Excellent.” He stood. “We at the Academy are very thankful for your help with preservation of our culture.”

“I am honored to have the opportunity to help, although I of course regret the circumstances.” C.J. stood as well.

Alarek gave a short nod. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Wayata.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

“We are fostering five orphans,” T’Pau announced, from the door of C.J’s room. “They are all of good Vulcan families. You are not expected to treat them any differently than any of your other students.”

“Of course not,” C.J. murmured. She liked kids, she really did—otherwise she wouldn’t have been a professor—but she hadn’t actually known she’d be living with five of them. She stopped unpacking and turned to devote her full attention to the Vulcan matriarch.

“The girls are sisters, named T’Lin, T’Gon, and T’Far, aged four, five, and eight. The boys are Triok and Vitek, aged six and ten. T’Far wishes to study the lyre. Vitek has already had two years of study on the lyre, as well.”

“That will be helpful,” C.J. said.

“They are all of standard Vulcan intelligence and have been trained in proper manners,” T’Pau said.

“I would expect no less.” Considering the children had probably been living with T’Pau, who had only overthrown the planet when she was C.J.’s age, and Sarek, the Perfect Vulcan Ambassador—well, other than that human late wife of his and his half-human, entirely defiant son—she was surprised the children weren’t already members of the Vulcan senate or something.

“You will speak to them primarily in Vulcan.”

“As you wish,” C.J. said. Vulcan, Standard—she’d speak to the kids in Klingon if T’Pau said she should. “Is there anything else I need to know?”

“I do not believe so. I will see you at dinner.” T’Pau left, and C.J. returned to sorting her clothing. _I don’t think that woman will ever stop scaring the living daylights out of me,_ she thought idly.

* * *

“All, right, children, please sit down.” Forty-five rear ends, attached to children between eight and sixteen, hit the bench at almost precisely the same moment. She wasn’t sure she’d ever quite get used to that. “Today we’ll be studying a Western Terran musical movement, a subset of serialism, called dodecaphony, or the twelve-tone technique. Recall that the standard scale these composers use is divided into twelve equal units per doubling of the cycles per second. Approximately three hundred and fifty years ago, composers used a form of pitch serialism in which all twelve tones are used in a specific order and none repeated before all twelve have been heard. In order for the music not to be insufferably repetitive, though—that’s called minimalism and we’ll get there tomorrow—composers manipulated the row either by inversion, retrograde, or a combination. Similarly, each row could be started on any of the twelve chromatic pitches. That would give a total of how many possible rows—Skon?”

“Forty-eight, Dr. Wayata, but it is statistically likely that a number of those rows would be virtually identical.”

“Correct.” C.J. touched the screen of her padd; it caused a twelve-by-twelve grid to appear on the wall. “Sets with more than one set of identical rows are called ‘invariant.’ If portions of rows contain similar patterns—3657, see here and here—“ She circled two segments in two different rows “—those are often used as pivot points between rows. That phenomenon is called combinatoriality.” Tapping into another application on her padd, she cued up a piece. “Any questions?”

Of course there weren’t any.

“All right. I’m going to play [a rather pure piece of twelve-tone music](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AV8MG6Wgeuo%E2%80%9D), written by Anton Webern in the twentieth century. I want you to identify the row and any variations he uses in this excerpt.” One thing she appreciated about Vulcans was that they all had dead-on relative and absolute pitch. It was unfortunately tuned to the Vulcan scale, but they adapted easily enough. She started the music, and looked up to watch the faces of the children.

A movement in the back of the room caught her eye, and she saw Sarek standing in the back of the room. When he saw that he had caught her attention, he gave a short nod, which she returned. She headed to the back of the classroom—the piece was a couple minutes long—to meet him. “Is something the matter?” she asked quietly.

“No,” Sarek replied. “I was merely observing the lesson.”

“Any suggestions?” C.J. asked.

“I confess I am unfamiliar with the subject matter and do not consider myself competent to comment.”

“Ah,” she said. “The piece is ending. You are, of course, welcome to attend my classes at any time, and if at any point you have a suggestion regarding my methodology, if not the subject, please do comment.”

“Thank you,” Sarek said.

C.J. returned to the front of the room. “All right, Soren, please identify the prime form of the row.” Sarek, she noticed, remained for another few minutes before leaving.

* * *

It took another month and a half before Sarek ventured so much as a comment on her teaching, either way. “It seems that you have a remarkable facility to adapt to the education of young Vulcans,” he said, while walking with her back to the living area after her last class of the day.

“Thank you,” C.J. said, pleased by the compliment, but a little confused. “Is there anything I might improve?”

“I still do not have enough data to make a proper evaluation,” he said. “Also, I find that my education in your subject matter has been woefully incomplete.”

She had been around Vulcans plenty long enough to interpret that. “I can recommend some upper-level textbooks on the four main sources of xenomusicology,” she suggested.

“I would be grateful for your suggestions,” Sarek said. “Perhaps we could discuss the contents in a week’s time?”

“Sure,” she said.

* * *

C.J. sat down at the acoustic grand piano she’d brought from Earth, dusted off the keys, and started playing—not practicing, playing, as she hadn’t more than once or twice since she’d gotten there. It was late afternoon and she was alone in the residence, a rarity. Her fingers wandered through some Vulcan song transcriptions, a [Beethoven sonata](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BJ5QKjmkinU%E2%80%9D), a [Chopin prelude](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J_6APTb3RNQ), a Demintzer concerto, and some Andorian blues over the next hour. She lost herself in the feel of the keys under her fingers, the sound reverberating in the room. She hadn’t just played for the sheer joy of the music in months, and it was a relief.

She’d segued into Ravel’s [_Pavane pour une enfante défunte_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cwL4nSb9am8) before she realized that she had an audience—three small girls and Sarek. She smiled, somewhat, and continued playing. At the end of the piece, after the chord died away, she took her hands off the keyboard and looked up.

T’Far spoke for the three girls. “That was Impressionism, was it not?”

“The intersection of Impressionism and Neo-Classicism,” she corrected.

“Ah. Maurice Ravel.” At C.J.’s nod, the eight-year-old continued. “Your performance was very skilled.”

“Thank you,” she said. The three youngsters nodded and scurried off. C.J. turned her gaze to Sarek, who hadn’t said anything.

He swallowed once before speaking. “T’Far is correct. Your performance was very skilled.”

“Thank you. Would you like to hear something else?” She had no idea what prompted her to offer, but there it was, on the table.

“If it would please you,” Sarek said, a strange look on his face.

C.J. interpreted that as, “Yes, please,” and dove into [a Bach fugue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K_85VWhfSRA). When she’d finished, he looked much more normal.

“That was a four-part fugue, was it not?” he asked. “In D major; composed by Johann Sebastian Bach.”

“Yes. From the _Well-Tempered Clavier_ , book 1.”

“Ah. I believe those were not among his religious works?”

“No, those were secular. Do you know about his fascination with numbers and symbolism?” C.J. deftly turned the conversation to music and mathematics, complete with examples from her padd, and before long, T’Pau interrupted them for dinner.

“You should feel welcome to play the piano or any other instrument, regardless of our presence in the house,” Sarek said, as they walked to the dining area.

“Thank you,” she said, almost sincerely. _Right, practice in front of_ Vulcans? He shot her a look, but didn’t say anything.

* * *

A few days later, C.J. looked up during a Schenkerian analysis of a Vulcan art song to see Sarek standing at the back of the classroom again—except, she realized a moment later, it wasn’t Sarek. This Vulcan was significantly older, although he did resemble the ambassador a great deal. After class had ended, he came forward and introduced himself as Selek.

“Are you a relative of Sarek’s?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, but did not elaborate. “I am quite impressed with your skill in applying various Terran techniques of analysis to non-Terran music.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Are you a musician?”

“I have been known to play the lyre,” Selek said. “Are you familiar with Arkhan’s transcription of the songs of T’Lyr?”

“I wrote a paper on that transcription,” C.J. said. “Do you prefer the first publication, or the edited form?”

Selek, as it turned out, was not familiar with the first publication, despite his age, and they conversed pleasantly on the subject for several minutes.

“Well, you are of course welcome to observe any of my classes or lessons at any time,” C.J. said, seeing the next class starting to enter. “I will also send you my copy of the first publication, if you like.”

“I would greatly enjoy that,” Selek said. “If you could forward me a copy of your paper, as well?”

“Of course,” she said. There was something refreshing about running into so many non-musicians who were so interested in music history and theory. “Thank you for your interest.”

He smiled, something she hadn’t expected, and she smiled back, instinctively. It felt strange.

* * *

“I talked to a relative of yours today,” C.J. said to Sarek, as he accompanied her back home for dinner.

“Oh?” he asked.

“Selek, I believe.”

“Ah,” he said.

“He appears to know much about music.”

“He has always been fond of music. His mother quite encouraged him.” Sarek looked away.

“What’s the relationship between the two of you?” she asked.

“He is a cousin,” he said after a moment, but C.J. had the strangest feeling that he was lying. Maybe a half-brother, then. Not important. She changed the topic to the students, and Sarek responded eagerly.

* * *

“So, you’re a musician.” Ross, one of the other cultural ambassadors, had commed and invited her to lunch. They met in the only restaurant in the colony as of yet, a semi-formal affair.

“So, you’re a writer,” C.J. returned, with a smile. _What, did they call Central Casting and ask for a stereotype of a writer?_ Ross was tallish, thin, but with wide shoulders, messy black hair, anachronistic eyeglasses, and an air of dissipation.

“Yep,” he said. “Trying to explain creative writing to a bunch of literary theorists.” He offered a lopsided grin and a fork full of vegetables.

“Oh, they’re not that bad,” she said, digging into her own meal.

They talked about the weather, and students, and other matters. At one point, C.J. looked up and saw Sarek and a handful of Vulcan elders at a table nearby. She almost frowned—Vulcans didn’t regularly eat lunch—but didn’t. Strange.

“So you like it here?” Ross asked, as they were leaving.

“Yeah, of course,” C.J. said, frowning. “Why, don’t you?”

Ross shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “They’re . . . alien. I guess I didn’t know how much I like humans until I’m only around about twenty of them.”

“You have a point,” she said. “I don’t know. I mean, I haven’t heard unaccented Standard in a while—” _Well,_ she thought, _Sarek doesn’t actually have a_ Vulcan _accent in Standard_ “—but as much as I miss my family, I feel like I’m doing good work and I’m sort of—in my element here.” Also, frankly, the visible expressions on Ross’s face were a relief at first but, well, apparently she was out of practice in dealing with her own species, because he was just annoying by the end of the meal. Not that she’d ever say that.

He laughed. “Yeah, you certainly are. I’m sure you’ll get an offer for a fellowship at the end.”

“Do you think so?” she asked. _Staying on Vulcan II . . . I could do that. For a while, at least._

* * *

C.J. walked into the music room, as she’d been calling it, and stopped short when she saw Sarek standing behind the keyboard. “Don’t let me interrupt you,” she said, more confused than anything.

“I apologize,” he said, quickly moving to the other side of the piano.

“I’ll leave, if you wanted to play.”

“I—no, I do not wish to play, but I confess I am curious about technique . . .?” Sarek’s voice trailed off.

C.J. frowned. “Haven’t you watched—Never mind.” She realized as she said it that watching someone’s hands as they played the piano was perhaps a bit more intimate on Vulcan than on Earth. She curved her fingers into a proper playing position and set them on top of the piano. “Like this. Similar to typing, but a bit more precise. The minute a note is struck, relax the finger and arm. Fingers are numbered from one to five, thumb being one on either hand, and standard fingering for a scale is either 5-4-3-2-1-3-2-1 or 1-2-3-1-2-3-4-5. Middle C is, as I’m sure you know, just before the logo for the piano manufacturer.” She’d never given a piano lesson with neither of them sitting at the keyboard. She’d also never given a piano lesson without being able to touch the hands of her students. It was strange. Of course, Sarek’s behavior had been pretty strange in the past few weeks.

He nodded. “Thank you.” He didn’t leave the room, though, so C.J. nodded back and retreated. Once she’d left the room, she heard, very faintly, a C major scale.

* * *

The next morning she got a comm from Sarek, requesting recommendations for elementary piano music. She sent back a list, still confused, but when she got home from class, she faintly heard [“The Happy Farmer”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HKmpQjjQOBA&feature=related) coming from the music room, and it made her smile.

* * *

“Ceej!” Laura was grinning and almost bouncing in her seat. “I’m so glad you could call! What’s going on?”

“It’s great to see you, too,” C.J. said. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Big Sis. So how’s teaching?”

“It’s good—very rewarding. I’ve gotten through about four semesters of standard college classes in the last seven months.” She laughed. “The education system’s a bit different here.”

“No kidding! What about the preservation work?”

Of course she’d want to hear about that. Laura was an archivist for the Federation’s library. “I’m doing a lot of the stuff that old-school ethnomusicologists did—interviews, cataloguing, reorganizing the databases, stuff like that.”

“Are you preserving a lot?”

“Well,” C.J. said, “I’m working with a species with members who are pushing 200, all of whom have near-perfect memories. I’m practically rolling in things to preserve.”

“Lucky,” Laura said. “I’m digging through this old early World Wide Web program called ‘Facebook.’ It’s so—primitive. I don’t know how people did all this stuff with typing-only interfaces.”

C.J. wrinkled her nose. “Yuck, early twenty-first century.”

“So how about the people there?” Laura said.

“Oh, you know,” she said. “Vulcan. The other humans are . . . human. They run the gamut from pretentious artistes to mother-goddesses. I feel like I’m the only academic who applied.”

“Or maybe just the only one they took,” Laura said.

“Maybe.” C.J. doubted it, though. “I mean, it’s nice not having to deal with the politicking of academia, but I’m sick to death of—well, you’ve heard it all before.”

“I know,” Laura said. “Blah, blah, the divide between academia and creativity. And you know I agree. Sounds like you’re fitting in better with the Vulcans than the humans there. How about the family you’re living with? You haven’t said much about them in a while.”

“Oh, T’Pau is still intimidating; the kids I mostly see in class, and they’re bright and inquisitive.” She paused. “Sarek is—interesting. We talk about music a lot. I can’t tell if he likes music that much or just wants to stick to topics I won’t butcher.”

“Hm,” Laura said. “Is he cute?”

“What?” C.J. said.

Laura tapped at a console out of view. “Ambassador Sarek cha’Skon, right?”

“Your accent is still terrible,” C.J. said. “But yes.”

“Mmmm, not bad,” she said. “Whoa, hello, have you seen his son?”

“Spock? Yeah, I got here on the _Enterprise_.”

“That is a fine-looking young man.”

C.J. frowned. “I guess. He’s kind of—young.”

“Oh, so you think Sarek is more attractive?” Laura said, looking back at the lens.

“I hadn’t thought about it,” she said. “Anyway, how’s David?”

Laura gave her a look, but accepted the subject-change.

* * *

The house was dark when C.J. returned, fairly late, after a dinner meeting with a handful of the other cultural ambassadors. She was glad for the nearly-silent doors, and took off her heels before she walked through the house. When she passed her studio, though, she heard, faintly, someone playing piano inside. She stopped in front of the door and listened.

Logic told her it had to be Sarek, as no one else had come anywhere near the piano in the last nine months, but he’d apparently made a significant amount of progress since she’d heard him play last—like, the kind of progress that would get one from _Kinderszenen_ to the Ravel _Pavane_ he’d heard her play months ago. She eased open the door, the better to hear.

Sarek heard her come in; he was Vulcan, after all. He looked up briefly, nodded shortly, and continued playing. Apparently he’d been practicing; he had properly separated out all the lines and could modulate the relative volume and melodic contour of each, although he missed notes occasionally. It was odd; she’d expected his technique to be impeccable but his execution to be lacking in subtlety of emotion, and it was quite the reverse. While part of her brain carefully catalogued a list of constructive criticism, should he want it, the rest heard the song and gloried in the colors.

The song ended quietly, and he looked up at her when he was done. “That was lovely,” she said.

“Thank you,” he replied. “If you have any suggestions I would be glad to hear them.”

C.J. went for the compliments first, in proper style. “You’ve got a very sophisticated level of control over each of the lines, and your balance is excellent. For someone who hasn’t studied music formally in a while, you’ve got an amazing ability to conceive of the entire piece as a coherent whole. I have very few suggestions that can’t be boiled down to ‘practice the notes some more.’ However, you’re playing off of my copy of the music, and at the beginning of the second iteration of the A section, I’ve written in rolls for the chords I can’t reach. You don’t need to play them if you can reach them, which I suspect you can.” She pointed to the measure on the oversized padd and removed her emendations with the tip of one finger. “Also, if you can’t reach a tenth, the option is either to roll the chord, or to split it.”

“I do not understand the distinction.”

C.J. pondered how best to explain. “You can either play all three or four notes consecutively albeit quickly, or you can split the chord into two parts and play one or two notes at a time.” She paused. “That didn’t make any sense. May I demonstrate?”

Sarek nodded, and stood. She sat at the keyboard and rolled the first chord at the beginning of the page. “That’s a roll, obviously; you were playing it that way because that’s how I play it.” She played the other option, ba-dum. “That’s the split. However, I bet you can just reach the whole chord without making an accommodation.” She spread her fingers as far as they would go, which was a ninth. “I’m hampered by being short and female.”

“I would not say either is truly an affliction,” Sarek murmured behind her. He leaned over and placed his hand on the keyboard, an octave below hers, easily reaching the interval.

“I thought so,” C.J. said, swallowing, her mouth suddenly dry. He wasn’t even touching her in the slightest, but she could feel the heat coming off of his body mere inches away from hers. _I really should move,_ she thought, but didn’t budge.

Slowly, Sarek lifted his hand off the keyboard, and with his index and middle finger, traced a line from the tip of her index finger back to her wrist. Even if he’d been human, she couldn’t have mistaken the sensuality in the gesture. The line of heat shot from her hand straight to the pit of her stomach, and she turned to look up at him.

“If this is unwelcome, I apologize,” he said quietly.

“You know it isn’t,” C.J. said. His fingers rested on her wrist, lightly, but maintaining contact.

“Correct,” he said, “but you are still surprised.”

Yes, surprised. Surprised at how much she wanted him, and how quickly it had come on—well, not really; it had been building slowly for nearly the entire time she’d been at the colony. Also a bit surprised that he’d be interested in her, or act on it. She cupped his hand in hers and ran her thumb lightly over the side. “Pleasantly surprised,” she said, and smiled at him.

The corners of his mouth turned up, just a bit. _He was married to a human woman, right?_ C.J. leaned forward, and he picked up her cue, tipped his head to one side, and kissed her human-style.

Somehow she ended up in his lap, on the piano bench, which was undignified for a forty-one-year-old woman no matter how short she was. One hand was buried in his hair, her thumb tracing the edge of his ear, and the other linked with his, kissing Vulcan-style and human-style simultaneously. She pulled back to look at him, and the desire in his eyes was so obvious that anyone would have recognized it. “Sarek,” she said, and stopped.

“It is, I believe,” he said, answering her unvoiced question, “mutual desire sprung from tentative friendship and respect.”

“Also physical attraction,” she said. “At least—“

“Yes,” he said, amused. His hand slid from her shoulder to her waist. “That is mutual, as well.”

C.J. kissed him again, and said, “So . . .” She took a deep breath. Sarek raised an eyebrow. “If I were to suggest relocation, what would be the likely result?” she said.

“Relocation,” he said promptly, and she laughed.

“Let’s relocate,” she said. “My room is more isolated.” She shifted off his lap and stood, holding out a hand.

He took it, and smiled—well, for a Vulcan. “Yes.”

They headed quietly over to her room, and she locked the door behind them. _This is awkward_ , she thought, until he moved behind her and began unpinning her braids. She’d been wearing her hair in a traditional Vulcan female non-royal style for most of the time she’d been on the planet, out of both courtesy and the fact that it was surprisingly flattering. Now she found out another good reason to keep her hair up: it was amazingly hot when Sarek took it down.

He was apparently familiar with the hairstyle, because no more than a few minutes later her hair was loose, hanging in braid-induced waves almost to her waist, black in the moonlight. His fingers stroked along her temples and her scalp, and she relaxed. By the time he made it to her neck, her eyes were closed and she moaned. “Oh, that’s lovely.”

“Thank you,” he said. His fingers shifted under the hem of her cardigan, and she shrugged her shoulders to help him remove it. One hand on her waist kept her from turning while he set the sweater aside, and she felt him unzip the back of her dress. He pushed it off her shoulders, and it caught on her breasts and hips before pooling around her feet. She stepped out of the circle of fabric, and turned as he picked it up and draped it over the back of the chair.

She stood, facing him, wearing only her undergarments, more than a little self-conscious. He raised his hands to her shoulders and traced her collarbone with his thumbs. “You are quite beautiful,” he said, a thread of heat creeping into his voice.

“Thank you,” C.J. said. She couldn’t quite see his face, but she watched as best she could while she lifted her hands to his collar and started undoing the hidden clasps on his tunic. It took her a few minutes, but she managed to strip him to his undergarments as well. He only moved enough not to hinder her.

He was not young, but still tall and strong and really, the standard Vulcan tunic or robes were not flattering in the least. C.J. wouldn’t have suspected that Sarek looked like _that_ under his clothes. She traced the muscles of his shoulders and upper arms with slow fingers. “You are quite beautiful, as well,” she said, her voice rough.

In lieu of responding, Sarek kissed her while divesting her of her bra and panties. He’d slid out of his own undergarments before she regained her wits, and they were suddenly lying side by side on her bed. His hand on her hip pulled her against him, and she gasped against his mouth. God, she wanted this—wanted him. She reached up and cupped the back of his neck, pulling his lips more firmly against her own.

Their hands explored, tentative in that new-lovers way, pausing occasionally to meet in the middle and kiss Vulcan-fashion. Soon—although it felt simultaneously like forever and no time at all—C.J. was gasping and straining against him, and he against her. She slid one hand down to cup his erection, heavy and almost too hot against her skin, and his breath caught.

One of his hands delved between her thighs, finding the hot wetness there, and dipping his fingers inside. C.J. gasped, tilted her hips towards his hand, and squeezed him, ratcheting the tension up a notch palpably. His other hand searched, found the back of her neck; she felt a tentative brush of his mind against hers, and nodded hastily. He kept the mental contact light, she could tell; she still retained possession of all her senses. There were just a few added feelings: his pleasure at both her hands on him and his fingers inside her, primarily. She clenched around him and felt the sensation reverberate between them. _Wow. Just—wow._

Sarek chuckled in her ear, and she felt his amusement. “I am glad you approve,” he said, and pressed upward.

She gasped again, and pulled on his shoulder, thinking _Now!_ as hard as she could. She felt another wave of amusement as he maneuvered into place, quickly replaced with a wave of lust as he entered her in one smooth stroke. He was, well, a bit bigger than his fingers, but she felt no discomfort—quite the opposite, really. Curling her legs around him, she met every movement.

They were not fast or frenzied; he had, as she was discovering, an exquisite sense of timing, and she was certainly old enough to be patient. Eventually, though, one last change of position and a swift brush of his fingers to deepen the meld sent C.J. to the peak and Sarek following soon thereafter.

When she came back to herself, he was lying beside her, his head pillowed on one arm. She turned to look at him, smiling widely, uncontrollably. With a remarkably broad smile for a Vulcan, he trailed two fingers down the side of her face, and she felt a frisson of arousal— _again?_ —go down her spine. “Wow,” she said.

“Indeed,” he said. “Succinct, and entirely accurate.”

Grinning again, she sat up exactly far enough to kiss him on the lips. “That was—damn. Is it always like that?”

“Your question is unanswerable. I cannot tell you if lovemaking between us will always be ‘like that,’ as that was only our first time.”

C.J. laughed and rolled into him, lacing her fingers into his. “I look forward to the next time.” She pulled back. “I suppose you have to go.”

“It is yet many hours to dawn. It would be illogical to move before necessary.” Sarek shifted. “Unless you wish me to leave.”

“No, of course not,” she said. She reached down and pulled the sheet and a light blanket over them, with his help. “But I’m probably going to fall asleep very soon.”

“I shall remain,” he said, settling an arm around her. She drifted off, inexplicably soothed by his presence.

* * *

He woke her up with a kiss several hours later, but still before dawn. To her surprise, he initiated lovemaking once more, joining their minds lightly before joining their bodies. Afterwards, he dressed quickly. “Will you join me for dinner this evening?” he asked. C.J. nodded, and he kissed her one last time before leaving.

Watching the door close behind him, she curled more tightly into a ball under the blankets. She missed his warmth already, which was stupid and sappy. However, she’d really, really missed—well, everything about being in a relationship. Sex, sharing a bed with someone else, being able to _touch_ someone else . . . it had been ten years since the divorce. Although she hadn’t exactly been celibate since then, she’d never—she’d never felt quite like this.

For the Vulcan Ambassador to Earth. Damn, could she pick ‘em. She buried her face in the pillow and giggled helplessly for a moment, before throwing herself out of bed and into the bathroom.

* * *

Selek stopped by between classes, to discuss a monograph he’d found in a database. She caught him staring at her, and raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me, Dr. Wayata, but you look—happier, I suppose, than the last time we spoke.”

C.J. felt herself flush from her toes to her scalp. She’d suspected she looked well-laid or something, but the rest of the people she’d seen that day had apparently been too polite to mention it.

Selek raised an eyebrow at her reaction. “I see,” he said. “Do you have any recommendations for preservation of this particular kind of material, once we retrieve the document from Andoria?”

“I can ask my sister,” she said, grateful for the change of subject.

Before he left, though, Selek said, “Please give my regards to Sarek,” with an almost guileless look on his face, and C.J. blushed again as she held her hand up in the _ta’al_.

After teaching her afternoon classes and lessons, she stayed in her office, grading papers until Sarek came to retrieve her. There were now two restaurants in town, the mid-level one that opened first and a fancier affair that had taken over the political and business evening meals. He chose the latter and steered her to a semi-private table in the corner.

As they sat and the server came to take their order, C.J.’s stomach was fluttering. The last time she’d gotten a really expensive meal . . . She ordered, only half paying attention, and waited for Sarek to finish.

After the server left, he turned to her and said, “You appear to be unsettled. Is the restaurant not to your liking?”

“No, it’s lovely,” she said. It was; calligraphy decorated the walls, and a lutenist played folk tunes unobtrusively in the corner. “I am merely . . . I do not know what sort of conversation is coming.”

Sarek looked blank for a moment, and then frowned. “Is it not common for humans to take the object of one’s affection out for a meal? I was under the impression that, ah, ‘dates’ transcended race. I was not aware that human culture had changed that much in the last thirty years.” He used the Standard word, although they were conversing, as usual, in Vulcan.

C.J. smiled briefly. “They do, but humans will also take other humans out for a fancy dinner to soften the blow of some bad news.” _Like, say, that you’re getting served with divorce papers._

“Ah. Vulcans do not do that. In addition, I do not have any bad news to deliver.” Sarek frowned again. “Also, the timing of the invitation would, I hope, have implied to you that my intentions were not to deliver bad news.”

“I suppose,” she said. “Nonetheless, I’m sure we have some details to consider.”

“Such as?”

“What’s—what’s going on?” She spread her hands. “I know what human cultural mores are about this—about us—and I know what Vulcan cultural mores are, in general, about this, but I don’t know where we fit in.”

“Ah,” Sarek said, and leaned backwards incrementally. “I believe you are asking my intentions?”

“That’s one way to put it, yes.” C.J. wrung her napkin in her lap, below the level of the table, but his eyes dropped from hers briefly.

“You do have some say in the matter,” he said, and her lips twisted at his deliberate understatement. “For my own part, I am not averse to a continuing relationship of some formal nature.”

She blinked. “Well. Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, with a smile. “We’re dating. How’s that?” She remained blissful for almost a full heartbeat before reality set in. “Oh, my God, is T’Pau going to kill me?”

“Why would she do that?” Sarek asked.

“Because I’m—I don’t know—keeping you from marrying a nice Vulcan woman and producing smart, high-ranked babies?” C.J. flushed as she spoke. She looked around and was glad to see that no one was even within Vulcan hearing distance, thanks to the acoustics of the restaurant.

“Ah,” Sarek said again. “Fortunately, Vulcans have embraced alternate reproductive technology. I have donated genetic code to the bank, and as I am co-fostering five children at the moment, I am not expected to contribute any more unless I so wish.”

“Oh. So nobody’s going to—“ She felt her face growing hot again. “You won’t be ostracized?”

Sarek looked mildly amused. “My first wife was human and died when Vulcan was destroyed, both of which you know. I am well-known to be somewhat eccentric in personal relationships.”

“I’m never going to be properly Vulcan, you know,” she said. “I’ll still smile, make jokes, think about steak. I don’t even know if I can be as Vulcan as your first wife.” She’d looked up vids of Amanda Grayson, who was always properly dressed and serene, at least in public.

“I will never be human, and I will certainly not be as demonstrative as your first husband. Fortunately, I do not expect you to be other than yourself, and I hope you would afford me the same.”

“Of course,” C.J. said. “It’s just—“ She shrugged. “I’d prefer you know what you’re getting into.”

“I do not think you need worry about that. Apparently I am susceptible to the combination of logic and illogic that you commingle so fascinatingly.”

C.J. translated that from Sarek-ese into _You’re pretty and your brain is hot, too_ and smiled again. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m quite susceptible to your charms, as well.”

He smiled in response—not broadly, but enough that she knew he’d made an effort. The food came then, and conversation halted while they ate. So they were dating. They’d deal with the rest of it later.

 _Ha, Laura’s going to laugh,_ she thought.

* * *

Later—much later—Sarek stroked C.J.’s hair and said, “Yes, I believe it always will be like that between us.”

She buried her nose a little further into his shoulder and said, “Good.”


End file.
